A new one-shot. I like this pairing, so I thought I'd play with it a bit. It's in second person, Blaise's perspective. Tell me what you think about it! :)

You start thinking that she's beautiful a long time before you say it

You start thinking that she's beautiful a long time before you say it.

The first time, you are thirteen. You are sitting at the long table for supper, surrounded by your friends, these blazing flashes of green and silver. You look across at them (noble, stupid red and gold), expecting to feel disgust and contempt – but no. She's sitting there, curly hair wild, her nose scrunched up as she reprimands that idiot redheaded friend of hers.

And you think to yourself,

She's beautiful.

It's not something that you're proud of, and when Draco turns to you and asks you why you're distracted, you turn with a sneer.

Maybe it's a trick of light, the dimming of the candles, the blurred edges of a flame.

Maybe it's all an illusion.

Illusion it may be, but when you're lying awake that night, you're thinking of her.

--

You come from good blood, noble blood, pure blood.

You imagine that Muggle blood runs murky and in clumps, like tar or perhaps maple syrup. But when you see her, you think of water, clear and light.

It's so wrong – it's been three years since you first noticed her, and you can't help but fixate on the sharp curve of her chin, the brightness that flashes in her eyes. She's funny when she's angry; she's brilliant when she's not. You look for things that are wrong with her, but even her faults turn into endearing quirks – the way she chews on her bottom lip, the hurried clattering of her steps down the hallway, the way she sits up in class with her back straight, her hand in the air like a flag.

You never talk, it wouldn't be appropriate, and besides, someone's always around. Your friends, her friends. It's never the right time.

And then, one day, you find yourself in a hallway with just her. She glances at you from the corner of her eye – the look is nervous, distrusting. Somehow, this cuts at something inside your chest.

"Granger," you say. You nod your head, almost smile but then decide against it.

She looks at you as though she does not know who you are. You realize that she is hesitating because you did not call her a name, because you are being civil for once.

It is a sobering thought.

"Zabini," she finally says, inclining her head in return. She pauses again. "So, what do you make of that last Transfiguration exam? I'm afraid I did awfully on the essay portion – there was so much I had to say, but I ran out of time."

You know that she did not actually do awfully on any part of the exam. You both know that the exam is not that important. But she's making an effort.

And this makes you feel lighter inside.

"Well," you ruffle your hair, clear your dry throat nervously. "I'm generally a failure at essays, but I'm sure you'll get the highest marks, as usual."

You don't know why you're being so kind, and from the look on her face, she doesn't either.

But then you smile at her, and she smiles back, and you think that maybe you don't mind being so soft.

--

You begin to arrange study sessions. You both know that they're not necessary, but you make excuses anyway.

She says, "I'm really struggling with some of the specifics in Potions, and you need some fine-tuning with your spellwork."

"It's symbiosis," you say.

She raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that a Muggle scientific term? Is that kind of reading allowed in your household?"

You shrug. There is no need for the defensive act, not when her features are merely puzzled, her eyes still soft. "I was a curious kid."

You spend nights in the library, huddled among stacks of musty books, exchanging details about your lives in whispers as you watch the candlelight flickers reflected in her eyes. They're brown, deep, and you can see the shift in brightness when she laughs or smiles.

"Did you tell the duo where you were?" you ask, referring to her best friends. You still can't stand them; some vestiges of your upbringing cling to you still.

She purses her lips together, looks down at the table. "Of course." Her voice is clipped – and then, a sigh. "But not who I'm with," she conceded.

"Me neither," you say. "Slytherin thing, you know. Can't be seen consorting with the Mud… Muggles."

For some reason, you could swear that you saw disappointment flicker in her eyes.

"Right," she says softly. "Right."

You wonder at that moment how much you'd be willing to see her smile all the time.

--

When you finally kiss her, there's no special lead-up, no moment of fireworks or flaring flames. You are in the back of the library, your knees touching over the desk.

She asks, "Can you take a look at the diagram on page 303 for a moment, just so I can clarify something?" and when you look up, you cannot resist those questioning brown eyes.

And so you do what seems the most natural. You lean across the table and kiss her.

She doesn't pull away immediately.

It's quiet. Warm. Wonderful.

When she does lean back, she looks at you with the same expression, except the questions are intensified in her eyes. "Oh," she says. And then, "Why?"

"Because I always thought you were beautiful," you say. It is the truth. "And also, because I think I'm falling in love with you." This too is the truth, though it takes a great deal more difficulty to say. It feels as though there is sandpaper scratching at your throat – it is so hard to get out.

"But I always thought that you thought I was…" she wrinkles her nose, looks away. "Dirty, or maybe… inferior?"

You lean across the table again, take her chin in between your fingers.

You look into her eyes and you say,

"I think you're quite possibly the most brilliant, beautiful and amazing witch I've ever met. And that has nothing to do with blood."

And when you lean in to kiss her again, it is no illusion.

Kind of a bit of fluff, isn't it? Now, click the review button pleeeease!